Knocked About
by nyssa123
Summary: Sam gets whumped. Gene comes to the rescue. Sam/Gene, hurt/comfort, established relationship. Rated T for descriptions of violence.
1. Knocked About

The warehouse was dark, illuminated only by a single flickering 20-watt light bulb. The man tied to the chair had been there for at least three days, and his body bore the signs of various items: wrenches banged about his legs, knives sliced into his arms, cigarette burns red and angry on his back and upper chest, a bloodied screwdriver lying on the floor a few feet away that had been pressed into his wounds and twisted to make him scream. His face was swollen, his nose broken and his eyes blackened, blood dribbling down from his scalp. He had been stoic and strong at first, refusing to talk, to communicate. He had cried later, like a child lost and desperate, but he still hadn't spoken. Finally he had stopped responding at all, only twitching when they hit him or crying out mindlessly, his body spasming.

The men had left hours ago, tipped off with new information. They had left him there, ropes cutting into his flesh, wrists bound by unbreakable plastic ties that bit into his skin.

The door opened, and a gun was cocked. It sounded loud in the silence of the warehouse, echoing off the damp walls.

"Police! You are surrounded by armed bastards!"

The man in the chair made a noise, unintelligible and pained. The door closed slowly of it's own volition as loafers pounded towards the sound. The policeman cursed and dropped to his knees. "Oh, what've they done to you?"

Gene knelt beside the chair, pulling a pocketknife out of his jacket and hastily sawing at the plastic ties around the man's bloodied wrists. He took the younger man's face in his hands, wiping the red from his eyes.

"Hey, Sam, c'mon, we have to get you out of here."

Sam groaned low in his throat and pitched forward. Gene caught him with a curse.

"Sam. Sammy, you awake in there?" His head lolled against Gene's shirt, smearing blood onto the dark blue lapel. "Christ. Okay, I'm gonna pick you up."

Gene scooped the small figure into his arms, wary of broken bones. Sam keened as one of the detective's large hands brushed over his purple, bruise-mottled ribs, letting out a chocked, half-conscious sob. He shuddered in Gene's arms.

"Fuckin' Hell, Gladys." He muttered, moving towards the sliver of light that marked the exit. "You can't go a week without getting into some sort of mess, can you? Got a bloody death wish, you have." He shouldered the heavy metal door open all the way, squinting in the sudden daylight, Sam whimpering and deliriously burying his face in Gene's shoulder. "Right, 'm gonna call for back-up. Phyllis'll send help faster than you can shimmy into those tight pants of yours in the morning, not that that's hard." He glanced down at his DI. Sam looked even worse outside, his skin pale and clammy and his naked torso looking like the palette of an artist going through a black, purple, and red phase. Gene swore.

"Jus' hang in there, Sammy. Help's on its way, you'll see." He opened the door of the Cortina precariously, setting Sam down on the back seat before reaching for the police radio and shouting their address at Phyllis, followed by a sharp, barked "Ambulance! _Now!_"

He perched beside Sam in the back seat, gently shifting him so that he was lying on his side. "We've been looking for you for days now, Sammy-boy. Had us right worried, you did." He reached down, pressing his sleeve to a cut on the smaller man's stomach that was oozing blood. "I'm sayin' this right now, you go off on your own again without telling anyone your location and I'll break both your skinny legs like so many toothpicks. Got me?" Sam inhaled shallowly, air hissing in his throat. Gene frowned, stroking his DI's hair. "Good. 'M not letting anything happen to you, Sammy."

A siren wailed a few streets away.


	2. In Hospital

"… Stupid bloody bastard! Poncey, know-it-all git!"

Sam groaned. "Christ Gene, give it a rest. I've just woke up."

Gene glared at him and hunched forward in the plastic hospital chair. "Do I look like I give two shits, Dorothy?" He took a gulp from his flask. "Only you'd be stupid enough to get yourself nabbed by gun runners."

"Oh, so now it's my fault." Sam kneaded the bridge of his nose, acutely aware of the IV tugging at the stretch of his arm.

"Of course it was your fault!" Gene roared. "You don't go off to investigate a potential suspect on your own, you stupid bugger!" The half-empty glass on the nightstand rattled as he slammed his fist down. "You're supposed to be the smart one, why the Hell didn't you bring someone with you?"

"None of you even believed that Gregson was the smuggler! I was on my own, I'm always on my own!"

"Don't pull that. You could've got Chris or Cartwright to tag along. God knows she follows you around like a dog with a dead squirrel anyway."

"I can't deal with this." Sam squeezed his eyes shut. His head felt like it had been split in half and the only thing keeping his brains from falling out was a thick marshmallow paste. Whatever they had running through his IV, it had made him hyper-sensitive: the lights were too bright, the machines were too loud, and it felt like there were fire ants running around under his skin. The painkiller wasn't even worth the miserable side effects; his whole body ached dully and the cuts on his face and torso stung under layers of antiseptic. He felt himself starting to tear up, over-stimulated, and tried to convince himself it was from the dry hospital air.

He heard Gene curse. "Shit. Don't, Sam, I didn't-" He swore again, and Sam felt a hand pat his leg clumsily. "I'm sorry, Sam. You just…" His eyes roamed around the room before settling on the blankets, avoiding eye contact. "You gave us a scare, you daft Nancy."

"That's as comforting as you're going to get, huh?"

"I'm not good at all this poof stuff." Gene grumbled. "You and your girly psychology. Why should we have t' talk about our feelings? Seems like a load of shit to me."

"Mmm. Thanks. I feel so loved." Sam leaned back against the pillows, pale and exhausted. "When can I get out of here? I bloody hate hospitals." He wrinkled his nose. "Smells like piss and death."

"I'm hoping you dunno that from personal experience, Samantha."

"Very funny."

A fluorescent light flickered over Gene and Sam twitched, his neck jittering forward like a bobble head on the dashboard of a braking car. He held out a trembling hand as Gene clattered to his feet, overturning the chair.

"I'm fine." Sam's bandaged fingers shook, the metal splints clinking against each other. "I'm fine, sit down."

Gene snorted. "Yeah, and I'm giving Ursula Andress one from behind on me Wednesday's off. Tell me another, I'm in the mood for a laugh."

When Sam was upset, he usually scowled and raved. Now he just looked tried, shaking and pale with his forehead glistening with sweat and two black eyes that would have kept him blind for a week were it not for the cortisone pumping through his system. He scratched at the inside of his arm weakly, being careful not to dislodge the drip.

"Why are you here, anyway? D'you miss your favorite punching bag or has the wife just kicked you out again?"

"Don't be an idiot." He reached out a hand to Sam's face, but the bedridden man turned his head to avoid it. "Seriously, I'm not above punching a cripple. Don't push your luck, Mr. I'm-Feeling-So-Sorry-For-Myself."

"Some days I don't even know why I came back." Sam muttered. Gene cupped a hand at the nape of his neck; this time, he didn't resist.

"We need you, Sam. I need you." He kissed the bandaged forehead. "And if you ever try anymore of this death-seeker bullshit, ever, I'll ram a nightstick so far up your arse it'll come out your nose the next time you sneeze."

"Sounds like fun."

"You'd know."

Sam closed his eyes as Gene leaned back in his now-upright chair. They sat in silence, Sam's chest rising and falling beneath the bandages, the blankets pooled around his waist.

"Gene?"

"Mmhm?" He mumbled around a cigarette.

"Why are you here?"

"'Cause you're my DI, you bloody ponce. Where else could I be?"


	3. Fuzzy At The Edges

Sam pauses on the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing and gulping in deep breaths of air. His chest clenches, tight under the layers of thick bandage that are holding his flesh together. He sits down on the steps, more of a collapse than anything, and presses his forehead against the cool plaster of the wall. The painkillers rattle in their bottle deep in his pocket, but his clumsy splinted fingers can't grab hold of it and they mash against the liner of his jacket as he fumbles blindly.

Shoes pound up the stairs and there's a heavy whump of air as someone sits down beside him. He cracks an eye open and sees Gene glaring at him, panting.

"You can't just run off inside all by your self. Gonna tear your ruddy stitches, and then I'll have to take you right back to hospital."

Sam squeezes his eyes closed. "Go 'way."

"Not gonna happen, Samantha." Gene reaches over and pats him on the head. "You in walking condition? Wanna get you upstairs before we're eighty."

"Yeah, I'm fine." Sam lies, struggling to his feet. The railing is good under his hand, solid and easy to grasp even with the unwieldy metal and bandages that seem to be completely engulfing his fingers. He takes a shaky step up, Gene standing close behind him. His knees are still stiff, and it's slow going as he raises one leg and brings it down, then the other, then again with the first. His loosely clamped fist shakes and his jaw is taut, the muscles clenched with tension.

"Hey." Gene lays a hand on the small of Sam's back, his palm warm even through the smooth leather of the jacket, the rumpled cotton shirt, the gauze and the tape.

"D'you want your pills?"

Sam nods, not trusting his voice. He's been slurring since he woke up, his lips still puffy and numb even though the swelling on his face has gone down immensely in the past few days. It makes him sound like a drunk, like someone weak, and his self-esteem is already low enough without having to think of himself that way. Gene reaches around, careful not to hit the bruises on Sam's tender abdomen as he delves into his jacket pocket and frees the little bottle, unscrewing the lid and tipping out two of the round white pills into his gloved palm. He passes them to Sam and holds out his flask.

"Here."

Sam gulps down both tablets in a single mouthful of whiskey. "Thanks."

"'S not a problem. C'mon, my legs are falling asleep."

Sam doesn't say anything of the fact that when they finally get to his door, Gene's got a steady arm looped around his waist. He doesn't mention a word about how good Gene smells or how warm he is, because that's probably just the painkillers kicking in and he doesn't want to embarrass himself more than he already has. He just leans into his firm hold and lets his eyes drift closed as his DCI fumbles with the keys he somehow managed to get a hold of, struggling with the combined frustration of the sticky lock and Sam's dead weight. He grumbles, complaining low in his throat, and to Sam it sounds like safety.

The painkillers are strong, and Sam's already weak legs have gone completely loopy. He's relying on Gene for support now, for help, for a leg to stand on, but really, doesn't he always? Even when they're beating the shit out of each other, Sam knows that Gene wouldn't really hurt him- he could easily, if he wanted to, but he only ever doles out aches and pains to Sam, shallow bruises that he can press his lips into later and murmur against the skin. Gene can hurt and heal in equal parts, but he hides the latter until he really needs it and relies on the former to make a point.

Sam's eyes are half-closed as Gene maneuvers him onto the bed and he realizes drowsily that he doesn't remember how they got there from the door. Gene is beside him, though, propping him up with squished pillows and unbuttoning his shirt. It doesn't slide off easily, like usual, but then they're usually working as a team to undress as fast as possible. Instead Sam is weak and pliant, like a giant ragdoll, and he hums in pain when one of Gene's fingers prods to close to a cracked rib. Even with the medication he's still sore but the DCI withdraws his hand, moving it up to Sam's shoulder and stroking the bare skin soothingly. He manages to get the shirt off, thankful for the unbuttoned cuffs, and unclips the belt. The leather slides through his hands and falls to the floor.

Sam moves down the bed carefully, his limbs groaning in protest. He can feel himself sliding into drug-induced sleep, his head heavy and his purple eyes shut against the sulfurous light of the lamp. There's a shift in the bed and a click, and then the orange glow bleeding through Sam's closed eyelids is gone, replaced with a blanket of cool black. The springs groan and creak and a body presses into his back, a dry, steady hand smoothing down his arms and neck.

Gene kisses Sam's back carefully, lips on the one spot of glowing white that he can see in the dark, squeezed in between black and blue and red. "You alright, Sammy?"

Sam mutters something that he hopes is intelligible as yes. He stops, pauses, then tries harder to control his thick tongue.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, you daft bugger." Gene holds him loosely, one arm draped over his abdomen in a way that can't possibly be comfortable for him. He's still fully clothed, only his tie and shoes discarded, probably lying in a pile of canvas and synthetic fibers near the door.

On a normal night they wouldn't just be lying here. On a normal night it's all teeth and tongues and fingers and feet, panting and begging and cursing and laughing breathlessly. On a normal night, Gene will stink of whiskey and Sam won't mind terribly if he leaves, pulling on his socks in the dark. He understands that Gene still has a life to lead, a life he had long before Sam came around. He respects that, understands it. But tonight isn't a normal night, obviously, because Gene is just holding him. He's not trying to grab him through his pants, not calling him a slut or pulling his hair.

"You could take me right here, y'know." Sam slurs against the pillow. He can feel Gene scowl against his neck.

"Like you're in any condition for that. I'm in no mood to explain to the twonks in the emergency room why my half-naked DI's popped his stitches." He watches Sam fading fast, watches him as he struggles to keep his eyes open. They both look like shit, Sam with his body looking like a bloody Picasso and Gene unshaven and rumpled with deep bags under his eyes. Sam yawns, mouth wide and cat-like as his pink tongue pokes at his bottom teeth. He moves closer to Gene, pressing back-to-chest.

Gene thinks that Sam feels small and thin and terrifyingly fragile. It's scary, for Gene, because for all his DI's nagging and complaining and poncey rules, the one thing he's definitely not is fragile. He can take a lot, his Sammy can, but it takes something like this to remind Gene that at the end of the day, he's only human.

Sam thinks that Gene feels warm and solid and strong. The silence of the room is a welcome change from the beeping hospital machines of the last few days, the shouting and the screaming of the last week, the constant voices on the radio and the TV of the last few months. It's just the sound of him and the sound of Gene, their breaths synchronizing. Despite the aches and pains, the dull throb behind his temples, and the tightness of his skin, he smiles.

"Thanks for not turning on the telly."

"Shut up and go to sleep, Gladys."


End file.
